


Pearls

by Nothing_But_Paisley



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Based on THAT scene from the book Hannibal, F/F, Incest-adjacent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, but not really, fem!Hannigram, this is absolute filth, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothing_But_Paisley/pseuds/Nothing_But_Paisley
Summary: Willow Graham is officially dead.Hanna Lecter celebrates the occasion with a gift—one Will isn't sure she wants.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Pearls

“How does it feel to be officially dead?”

  


Will turns from the window at Hanna’s question, and if she is surprised at all, she doesn’t show it. She holds out her empty glass, and Hanna pours them both a second round of fragrant Chateau d’Yquem. The fire turns it to molten gold.

  


“‘Death is an evil,’” Will quotes, voice frayed with familiar irony. “‘That’s what the gods think. Or they would die.’”

  


Hanna chuckles a bit as she scents the wine. “Really, Will? Sappho?”

  


“I like Sappho,” Will mutters into her glass. She drops into one of the buff leather armchairs, making Hanna smile internally at the careless treatment of her dress, a midnight blue Marchesa evening gown selected with the darkest shards of Will’s irises in mind. The rapturous plunge of its narrow neckline is also, of course, welcome. “Short and sweet. No bullshit.”

  


“Hmm.” Hanna tilts her head. “As far as the world is concerned, you now number among my victims, yet here you are, resplendent. I suppose that makes you a goddess.”

  


“A Fisher Queen,” Will agrees, smiling, wry. “You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself.”

  


Hanna gives a nod of thanks. Her own dress is an ivory sheath, strapless and glittering with brocade. If not for her wine-dark stilettoes and the matching off-black slash of her lipstick, she might almost have been a bride.

  


“It feels…liberating.” Will drinks deeply. Never one for savoring, was Willow Graham. “What about you?”

  


Hanna feels a smile spread over her face, uncontainable. She takes the opposite chair, and the heat on her bare arms and shoulders is delicious with the brisk wind of Buenos Aires winter whispering outside on the terrace.

  


“I feel very much alive,” she answers, and waits patiently for Will to meet her eyes over the rim of her glass. “I have something for you,” she murmurs, when Will relents and looks at her. She is fresh-faced and flushed with wine now, pink skin and loose brown curls given indolent charm by the deep, severe blue of her gown. Will works her finely cut jaw as she swallows an instinctual protest, running her fingertips over the flat, black jeweler’s box when Hanna slides it across the table between them.

  


“What’s this?” Once, there would have been suspicion in her tone. Now, there is only curiosity, a tentative reach for understanding.

  


“Open it and see.”

  


Will does.

  


Coiled on a bed of black velvet, she finds a long, twisted rope of tiny seed pearls. If she were to put them around her neck, they would fall almost to her navel in a spiraling triple strand. But Will makes no move to try them on; she merely strokes her thumb over them, keen eyes glistening in the firelight.

  


Confined to their box, they teem like snowflakes carried across the night sky on a gust of wind. They lack the polished sophistication of a strand of standard pearls, conveying instead a sense of wild innocence, small and irregular as milk teeth.

  


Will stares at the necklace for a long time.

  


“I’m not her, Hanna,” she says, barely louder than a whisper. Remarkable girl.

  


“No?” Hanna’s lips turn up at the corners despite the brief flash of pain. She cups Will’s roseate cheek, and shadows drape the gilded halls of her mind as if in anticipation of mourning. “A place was made for her in your world.”

  


“But not by me.” Will drops a kiss on her palm, nuzzles there a moment heedless of any danger. She closes her eyes, and Hanna watches her irises skitter beneath painted lids as she gathers her thoughts. Wicked, tender thing. Hanna might taste her heart yet.

  


“You played me a new composition this morning, remember?” Will says carefully after a long pause. The compassion in her voice makes Hanna’s chest ache. “It was beautiful.” She squeezes Hanna’s hand and lets it fall.

  


“Beautiful and fleeting.”

  


“That’s right.” Will’s eyes blaze brighter than the cabochon earrings she wears. “You could throw that sheet music in the fire right now, and we would still remember how it felt to hear it. Just because a performance ends, that doesn’t make it meaningless. You taught me that.”

  


“I suppose I did.” Outside, the winter wind rises to a sinister pitch, a sound keyed to fear and hunger in the deepest pits of Hanna’s memory palace. Perhaps Will is right; some compositions merit only a single performance.

  


Hanna raises her eyebrows, willing to be cajoled. “I am rather fond of the odd _memento mori._ ”

  


“Odd is an understatement.” Will takes up her wineglass with a lopsided smile. “Come on, have a drink with me.”

  


Hanna does, full to bursting with gratitude and the faint, unfamiliar sting of chagrin. The Chateau d’Yquem tastes sweet and green. Will must agree, since her tongue darts out to chase a droplet on her pretty, pink lip. She catches Hanna looking, and the lip disappears under her teeth as she bites back a grin.

  


Will dips two blunt fingers in the golden wine while her other hand pulls the front of her dress aside, making the long neckline gape open. The effect is shocking, a pale diamond of skin, and Hanna soon becomes distantly aware that she’s breathing through a slack, open mouth. Will frees her left breast and paints a shining trail of wine from her collarbone to the hard garnet of her nipple. It glistens like honey, or the tears of a martyr pouring over Carrara marble.

  


What saint could resist such an offering?

  


Not Hanna, who is on her knees instantly, bending her neck for a taste. Will’s skin warms the wine and lends it a hint of salt, and her sweet gasp when Hanna tongues at her nipple has heat coiling at the base of her spine and pooling lazily between her legs. She sucks until Will is arching up against her mouth and clawing at her own dress to free both lovely tits for Hanna’s careful delectation. Hanna moans deep in her throat at the faint sound of silk ripping, unable to muster too much concern for the dress at the moment.

  


She hastens the gown’s demise by crushing the hem in her hands and rucking it up past Will’s hips, pulling down the scrap of black lace between her legs to find her slick and wanting. Will clutches at her shoulders, fingers slipping into Hanna’s neat French twist as she kisses her way lower, down the paper-thin silk on Will’s belly. Will is already writhing in the creaking leather chair, sure to come almost instantly if Hanna gives the girl her mouth like she wants to. But Hanna would very much like to make this last, either to reward Will for her courage, or to punish her temerity. Both, she decides, have their merits.

  


Taken by a whim, she gropes for the necklace still in its open box and wraps the strands around her fingers, dragging the warm pearls over Will’s lips and gasping throat, then down to her sensitive nipples. Then lower.

  


Hanna kisses her thigh and rolls the pearls over her heaving ribs. “I’m going to give you a treat, sweet girl.”

  


“So give it to me,” Will husks, and spreads her legs. Beautiful, shameless creature. Hanna drags the backs of her pearl-clad knuckles up Will’s inner thigh and grips her hip to hold her still while she teases the necklace over her slit. Will huffs out a breath when the smooth rows of pearls slip over her clit. She braces her foot on the edge of the chair (her bare foot, Hanna notes with amusement), unable to get the leverage she desperately wants. Hanna kisses its arch and continues to taunt her with slow touches.

  


“You’re terribly wet, Will,” she murmurs, stilling her hand so that Will is forced to grind against it as best she can. “I do so hate watching you suffer.”

  


Will sighs out a laugh. “Liar.”

  


“Is this what you imagined would happen when you put yourself on display for me?” Hanna presses her lips to Will’s breastbone. The deep crimson of her lipstick smears Will’s chest like blood.

  


“Don’t know,” Will gasps. “I was curious.”

  


Hanna grins and kisses her, swallowing the greedy moan Will lets out when Hanna lets go of her hip. It is exceedingly tempting to keep Will desperate like this. She is so wonderfully honest this way.

  


Hanna unwraps the pearls from her fingers and lets them coil in her palm. She presses them to Will’s heat and begins, slowly, to push the strand inside with the tip of her index finger.

  


“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Will groans into her mouth. Hanna sits back to watch, eyes avid on the tiny pearls as she feeds them in. Four inches, then five, then six disappear into the hot clutch of Will’s cunt. “Keep going,” Will begs, gripping the armrests with white-knuckled hands as she tosses her wild curls. A faint mist of sweat at her hairline makes them cling to her skin, and her perfume turns sweet-sharp with arousal. She is Galatea coaxed to trembling life. Not the sculptor’s insipid dream, but a fierce lady of radiant flesh. The scar on her cheek flares red, a second mouth.

  


Hanna feels the prickle of hair at the heel of her hand. Nearly half the long strand rests inside Will now, and her eyes have gone hazy and wet. She rocks into Hanna’s palm greedily, head thrown back, each breath ending on a high, broken cry. Will is breathtaking like this, with all the alluring snarls and barbs protecting her dangerous mind cast off for the moment in pursuit of pleasure. Little pearls jostle and clack in Hanna’s hand.

  


“Good girl,” she soothes and kisses Will’s neck. “Can you take more for me?” Will bites back a moan and nods. Hanna smiles against fragrant skin and presses a few more pearls home, fingertips lingering inside her with relentless pressure until Will starts to come. She grasps Hanna’s bare shoulders and fucks up into her hand, clinging, tears in her eyes as she soaks Hanna’s palm with a whimper.

  


Will sinks back into the chair, panting in her ruined silk. Hanna looks up at her and takes in the drunken flush of her cheeks, her eyes more black than blue. She gives serious thought to wringing a second orgasm out of Will, who is always so terribly eager to be touched.

  


Another time, perhaps, when the mist of the past hangs less thick in the air.

  


Will reaches down and finds Hanna’s hand. “Please," she says, "not again.” Her mouth softens into a satisfied smile. “I might die.”

  


“Only a little death.” Hanna grazes Will’s collarbone with her teeth and slips the coiled pearls from her body, then places them back on the table. Will looks at them for a long moment, still dazed. The fire at Hanna’s back is becoming uncomfortably warm.

  


Will rises and peels off her dark gown to stand naked in the red light. Wordlessly, she takes Hanna’s hand and leads her to their bedroom.

  


In due time, the pearls are washed and dried and returned to their velvet bed. On nights when they both feel the ache of old wounds that followed them out of the water, Will takes them out and warms the delicate strands against her skin.

  


But they never, ever encircle her neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
